


maybe next year

by swallowedsong (bookstvnerdlove)



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, bail bondsperson emma, criminal killian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-31
Updated: 2016-01-15
Packaged: 2018-05-10 13:05:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5586730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookstvnerdlove/pseuds/swallowedsong
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>what happens when a bail bondsperson and a criminal on the verge of reform meet during the week before new years eve? alternatively titled, sad holiday sex.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Another town, another bail jumper. Another night spent staking out the scene in a local dive. 

This one attempts festivity, with the string of lights around the ceiling. Several of the bulbs blown out, it offers a sort-of warm glow against the dark, scarred wooden bar and the dark, scarred wooden stools. It’s enough for most patrons, sad half-celebration of a holiday twenty four hours gone. The patrons who fill bars like these during the one week during the year that feels longer than the rest.  

Patrons like her. 

Another year almost over. Another year as Emma Swan. Woman alone. 

She blames this case in particular for her maudlin mood, as she sips from the tumbler of whiskey in front of her. She’d asked for two fingers, but received three from the bartender who wears his long, dark hair pulled into a low ponytail. Who’s full body of tattoos don’t do much to cover the scarred knuckles and a history of broken noses. 

There’s something about lying, cheating scum, who swindle money from their own family that puts her in a mood, particularly at the holidays. Maybe it’s because she’s never had a family, not a real one anyway. She’s had foster moms and foster dads who  _ tried _ . Tried with the promise of vacations and afterschool art classes. But none of those ever lasted long enough. She’s had the empty promises of family, but never actually found it. 

And then there’s this asshole she’s chased to a snowy corner of Boston. Has a wife and two kids in the suburbs and a cushy finance job that he’d felt hadn’t compensated him  _ quite _ enough. So instead of spending this precious time with his family, he’d chosen to betray his company’s trust, to swindle his wife, and to run. With all of the money. 

During her first meeting with the wife, Emma, sitting across from her at the dining room table, had wanted to cover the woman’s hand with her own. To reassure her that she would find this woman’s husband. Restore what was lost. 

But. 

_ But, what good would any of that do?  _ It’s not like Emma can really do any of those things. She can restore the money. But trust? Trust can never been restored. Dreams for the future can be adjusted, but this loss? This loss is forever. Maybe that’s what she should have said, instead. Only… Only, faced with this woman’s tightly drawn features, big grey eyes had held that knowledge already. 

The voice that breaks through her contemplation is smooth and lilting, “A glass full of whiskey isn’t worth that much deep thought, love. Trust me.”

Before she turns on her stool to face the one person who’s dared speak to her in the three nights she’s found herself in this bar, she plays a guessing game. She hadn’t heard too much footfall, so it had to be one of the other two who sat on the tall, wobbly stools, and not one of the four in the corner booth. Given the accent he’s local enough, but not quite too local, so she’s determined it must be the blue-eyed man with the scruff and the prosthetic hand who’s sat three stools down from her the past three nights in a row. 

Christmas Eve. Christmas Day. And today. 

Or, just another Thursday, Friday, and Saturday night down by the harbor in South Boston.

Spinning, she acknowledges him with a glance and a nod. “It burns going down, no matter the reason for the drink.”

It’s not that she means to engage him, precisely, not in any sort of flirtation, at least. But the last thing she can be seen doing is giving a patron the brush off. Not if he’s regular enough that each night he’s sat down at the bar, he hasn’t uttered a single word before the bartender slid a drink in front of him. Not if he, or anyone else in this bar, has information on which of the three dockside motels her bail skip is holed up in. 

When he smiles, his lips pinch tightly enough that it’s almost a grimace. But he lifts his drink in salute to that. “Though I suppose some existential angst might make it more or less sweet once it gets there.” 

“Speak for yourself.” She counters, not wanting to contemplate the inner workings of men with scars slashed across their faces and knuckles freshly scratched and marked. Especially not ones who speak so easily of existential angst. 

“I might,” he murmurs. Just quietly enough that she has to lean closer to him to hear the rest, “If I thought I might be of some interest to you.” 

With those words, he slides down the bar, back to his original place. He slams the remaining alcohol in his tumbler and he shoves his arms into a leather jacket, even less suited to the weather than hers. 

She wants to call him back, but she’s no clue what she would say. He’s right, she’s  _ not _ interested in the inner workings of his mind. 

But what if he’s of other use?

.

When Killian approaches the weathered door to The Rabbit Hole the following night, he knows before he even enters the building that he’ll find her there again, in the same stool she’s graced since Thursday. 

At first he feared that she was there for him. She has that look about her, the leather jacket and the jeans tucked into her combat boots - all the better for chasing criminals like him. He’s willing to bet she’s not a cop. She’s too comfortable with the faintly sweet scent of the smoke that curls from the table in the corner. And, though she’s clearly taking note of the patrons in the bar, she hasn’t asked any questions yet. 

Cops, in his experience, can’t help but ask questions. Even when they’re trying to be circumspect. 

Testing the waters the previous night, her interest in him had been cautious, limited, and she’d taken a long enough look at his defining features to know whether or not he was who she was seeking. Besides, after she’d first shown up in his bar, he’d messaged his old contact, Smee. There’s no law enforcement activity currently aimed in his direction. 

When he’d lain low after the epic shitshow that had been the Gold job, it hadn’t been by choice. No, he’d found himself in the hospital, his alias du jour attached to his body, and in the system forever. That small trace of him, so long avoided, never to disappear. 

He’d spent his hard-earned cash on the prosthetic and disappeared to another country. One new name and a struggling business later, he spent his Christmas in a bar. Half-afraid to speak to a woman for fear that his time has finally run out, half-wanting nothing more than to discover whether her hair is as soft as he imagines it to be. Half-wanting to make her sad eyes spark with a smile.

Half-afraid that she will see right through him. 

But then, what is he, if not a consummate fool for love? 

The bell above the door jingles as he enters and, true to his estimation, there she sits. Long blonde hair pulled back tonight, but the same boots and jeans that accentuate every muscle in her delightfully long legs. Her body twitches at the sound, though she doesn’t move to stare as the other patrons do. 

“James,” the bartender greets him as he pulls a glass from the counter behind the bar and pours a generous amount of rum. 

That’s new, and Killian wonders if it’s for her benefit. The mystery woman who has entered their world with nary an introduction. Just a steady presence and an ability to drink most of them under the table. 

Or, so he heard this morning, down at the docks. 

Tonight, she approaches him. After he’s taken a healthy sip from his glass, he hears the scraping sound of glass moving along wood and he feels the heat of her presence at his side. 

“Hi James,” she introduces herself. “I’m Emma.” 

_ Emma.  _ He likes the way her name feels in his mind.  _ Romantic _ , he thinks before he curses himself again. What was that about being a fool for love? Oh, yes. He’s cursed alright. 

“Hi Emma,” he sticks out his hand to shake with her. 

Her grasp is firm, and he likes the way her name feels on his lips even more. Trouble. That’s what she is. Especially when he finds himself flush at her use of his name. The  _ wrong _ name. But he’s not ready to risk that admission yet, if ever. 

She may not be interested in him, but he  _ is _ interested in why she’s found herself in this same bar for the fourth night in a row. 

“So, Emma. Tell me how you’ve found our fair corner of the city.” 

She's hesitant, though she covers it with a sip of her own that works its way down her throat. Licking her lips, she catches a droplet of amber liquid, before she speaks again. “I’m here on a job.” 

“A job.” He’s familiar with the terminology, though he doubts that she means it in the same manner as he previously used the phrase.

She arches her brows at his inane repetition. “Fair point, lass,” he replies. “Forgive my surprise. There isn’t much new work around this neighborhood.” 

“I hear you’ve found yourself an opening,” her eyes shift downward as she speaks, her body shifting on her stool. 

If she’d been drinking a longneck, he’d win money on her twisting the label with her fingers.

“Ah. Asked about me, have you?” He teases her, not expecting a flush to find its way across the nape of her neck. 

Her words are a direct contrast to that all-too-brief moment of surprise. “Somebody might have mentioned that, while new, you seem to have an inside line that might be of interest to me.”

She wrinkles her nose, then speaks before he can reply. “No, that’s too vague. I’m looking for somebody. I heard that, despite your short-term residence, you have access to the areas in which he might be hiding.” 

“I might,” he admits. Smee might have followed him across the pond, but that doesn’t mean that he followed Killian into more legal activities. 

In fact, there’s a certain job of his own. Waiting. 

If. 

If he’s willing to get his hand dirty one final time. 

Unless. 

“I assist with jobs. But never out of the goodness of my own heart.” 

She snorts. “I wouldn’t imagine so.” 

Tilting his head, he watches her as she finishes her drink and gathers her jacket. Clearly she’s decided that she’s going to be the one who leaves first tonight. “Nothing’s ever free,” she says as she slams a business card down on the bar. “Call me and we’ll work out a fee.”

He’s already decided by the time the bell jingles. 

.

Emma expected a phone call sometime in the early afternoon, so when her cell phone rings during her early morning run, she’s definitely startled. Her display flashes  _ blocked _ as the ringing interrupts her playlist. It’s him. It has to be him. 

Answering out of breath, she snaps, “Swan.”

His voice is a warm chuckle when he says, “I didn’t wake you, love. Did I?” 

_ Is he serious?  _

“James,” she states, her words punctuated by visible puffs of breath into the cold winter air. “I want this job wrapped up before the new year. Are you in or out.”

It’s only a few days away, but she’s so close on this one. She can feel it. She’s pinpointed the neighborhood and nothing she’s done online has been able to flush him out. On-the-ground contacts are needed for this one. 

There’s a pause on the other end of the line and she’s about to threaten to hang up when he finally answers, his tone much more brisque than before. It’s a loss of warmth that she feels in the skip of a heartbeat, a reaction that she files away into a folder,  _ Will Examine Never _ . 

“Ten percent of your recovery fee.” 

_ That’s freaking hilarious.  _ “Two,” she counters. 

“Seven percent.”

“Two,” she hardens her tone. 

His laugh of frustration that crackles over the connection is a rapid-fire burst of sound and then silence. 

“Believe me. Two percent is a significant amount.” 

When he still hesitates, she gives him a figure that has him immediately responding, “I’ll call my contacts and be in touch. Shall we meet at our usual spot later?” 

As strongly as she feels the pull to say  _ yes _ , she’s found her man in the bar to assist and she has other avenues to consider today. “Not today. Call this number if you find anything.” 

She hangs up on him before he can counter with another argument. Her music resuming, her feet pick up the pace, through the snow-lined streets, even as her mind remains on him. 

.

In the end it’s fairly simple, except that it’s not. 

Smee’s tip allows Emma to track the job to a warehouse.

Smee’s tip comes with strings.

The warehouse is not very far from where his fledgeling workshop resides. Though she gives the air of one eminently capable of catching this man, whoever he is, without assistance, he finds himself keeping an ear out for her anyway. When, late in the day, it’s clear that he’s heard no sounds of car chases or gunfire, he assumes that her recovery has gone smoothly. 

It’s well into the evening before he begins to feel some concern. Dark and dreary with the light splatter of rain on the roof echoes through his still mostly empty space. There’s one boat propped up in the middle of his workspace and parts from several others littered around the edges of the room. 

He’s turned the office in the old warehouse into his bedroom, though he’s certain the city inspectors would have something to say about the arrangement if they knew. 

There’s a message on his phone, not from her. He knows without listening that it’s Smee. 

_ “Jones, this one is perfect for you. Besides, the client refuses to work with me alone,”  _ and “ _ Aren’t you tired of playing at reform?”   _

The other man’s wheedling hadn’t convinced him two weeks ago. Even now, though Emma’s promised him a cut of her fee, it’s not enough. Not for what he needs to keep this attempt at clean living alive. 

Scanning his meager possessions, he feels a twinge of pain where his prosthetic meets his forearm. 

He’ll listen to the message tomorrow and call Smee. Smee, who he used. Smee to whom he promised, in exchange for his assistance, to consider the final offer he’d once rejected. 

His doctor calls the sharp pain, that he feels with great regularity,  _ psychosomatic. _

He much prefers existential angst. 

And with that, he knows where he’s needed, and he shrugs into his leather jacket. 

.

His mouth is a warm slide against hers, their legs tangling as he presses her into his mattress. Two minutes ago he’d apologized for the space, to which she’d quieted him with her lips. He’d groaned into her mouth, hand immediately reaching to anchor in her hair. Their bodies stumbling until the back of her knees hit his bed, they’d gone from caution to burning hot in the span of seconds. 

This hadn’t been her goal in visiting the bar earlier that night. Driving south, she had told herself that she was on her way because he’d never given her his phone number. Criminal booked, fee paid, she simply needs to tie up loose ends. Even though she knew that he’d never let her get away with withholding payment. He had her phone number, and he could very well use it to claim what she owed. 

Why had she, then, found herself hand on the door handle, risking further exposure to the sleet and wind just to see him? 

It became crystal clear the moment she had walked into the bar. 

There he sat. Worn leather jacket slung over the chair to the left of his. A waiting tumbler full of drink. Turning in his seat when she entered, the moment between them had been so taut. So full. The space between them shrinking until her heart almost pounded straight out of her chest. 

It wasn’t his too-blue eyes or the tattoos curling along his forearms. It wasn’t the way his too-long hair fell across his forehead. 

It was his eyes. 

They were sad. They looked like hers, if she was being honest. Which, she much preferred not to be. 

Instead of sitting next to him, She’d stood there. Stood there until the bartender had yelled, “Lady, you’re letting out all the heat.” And she’d startled out of her haze. 

Over the course of two drinks she’d felt the slow steady thrumming grow under her skin. That buzzing knowledge that there is a sameness in him. Oh, she’d felt his desire from the first moment his eyes locked onto hers. No, this sameness is worn in his body, the ease with which he sits alone at a bar, night after night. The ease with which he filters in and out of conversation with others, never really saying anything. 

“I have your money,” she’d told him, in between a round of cars with the bartender. 

“My workshop is around the corner,” he’d shared with her, his hand trailing up her leg, knee to thigh, thumb circling. 

His lips travel a path down her neck as her body fights against the already tangled sheets of his bed. Her legs twist in fabric as her hands grasp at his shirt. It’s a messy sort of desire that she feels as the cool of his prosthetic touches the strip of skin at her waist made free by her shifting clothes. They both startle at the sound of her shoes falling, her legs dangling off the edge of his bed. 

There’s a grimace that he tries to hide as they shift and struggle up the mattress, until her head hits pillow. Stroking his cheek she wants to ask what’s wrong, but his thumb brushes silence over her lower lip. The calloused pad setting her nerves alight, he pull back long enough to remove his prosthetic and pull his shirt over his head. 

Her fingers play at the button of his jeans, but make no move to slide the denim down his hips. There’s a trail of hair that peeks out of the elastic of his briefs and she teases that rough edge with her fingers, before she leans in and snaps with her teeth. 

She can feel his cock twitch underneath the layers of fabric and it’s only then that her fingers make their way under the denim, gripping his ass as she tugs and pulls until he’s naked. 

.

When Emma murmurs his name, the sound of  _ James _ filling the room feels like a scream. Stilling her exploring hands, he falls to his back and, chest rising and falling, 

“Tell me something, love.” 

She rolls to her side, kicking off her own jeans, which had been hanging halfway down her legs as his fingers had been making explorations of their own, under the lace of her panties, dragging along soft skin. 

He wonders at just how it is that he seems to be able to read her so quickly, the slight question in her eyes and the wrinkle of skin between her brows. 

“Is it all criminals you seek, Emma? Or only the ones who garner payment?” 

Lips curving into a smile, she leans in to press her lips. Slow and sweet, it’s filled with more comfort than perhaps he deserves. And it’s so easy to tilt his head, to tangle fingers in her hair and to press deeper, further, than she’d intended. 

When he must breathe, when she must replace the oxygen that he’s sucked from her, she smiles again. “I don’t care what you’ve done in the past, James. Unless I’m paid to care.” 

“Killian,” he croaks, voice breaking on the name that he’s not used in years. 

Swinging her legs over his hips, she stares down at him, at the way his body rises to meet hers so instinctively, hard cock rubbing against blue lace. “Killian,” she kisses against his neck, mouth open and teeth dragging down to his collarbone. 

“Killian,” she licks against his chest, teeth nipping a path down, down, down. 

“Killian,” she murmurs as her lips wrap around his cock, that warmth and suction sending his mind spinning until she pulls back. 

Licking her lips, she grins, “I like Killian.” 

The moment lingers between them as he finds the condom on the filing cabinet next to his bed, eyes never leaving his. And it only strengthens as her eyes spark and her skin flushes when he flips their bodies and, forearms braced, loses himself in her body. 


	2. Chapter 2

When Emma awakens on the morning of December thirty-first it’s to the sun streaking through windows high above the bed, and to the steady thumping of a heartbeat at her back. As her senses engage, she also feels the slow glide of fingers up her thigh and she sighs back into the hard body behind her. 

His fingers easing along soft skin, they tease around her center, never quite reaching that destination, the one that’s beginning to ache with a fierceness that she’s not felt in quite some time.  Her legs fall open, her foot hooking around his ankle and her fingers gripping the sheets for leverage. His voice rumbles at her ear, low and deep, “I woke up wanting you, Emma. The question is, did you wake up wanting me?” 

His fingers pause in their travels along her thigh, just enough pressure to remind her that all she must do is say  _ yes _ and he’ll shift those three inches and sink himself into her. Opening her mouth to say the word, something else emerges instead. 

“I woke up hungry.” 

He pulls away from her instantaneously. The rush of air on her back is cold, and sends a rush of goosebumps along her skin. She feels the loss everywhere, her heart racing even faster than it had the night before, right before his lips touched hers in that first kiss. He remains quiet beyond the rustling of clothes as he pulls a shirt over his head and slips into sweatpants. 

Rolling over in the bed to face him, he sits at the edge, facing away from her, as he adjusts his prosthetic. 

“I didn’t mean - ” She starts but the sound of his short, bitter laugh, interrupts her. 

“Don’t worry, Emma. I’m well aware of what this was. Unfortunately, I don’t have much to offer by way of food.” 

Emma pushes down the twinge of guilt that coils in her throat. She owes him nothing more than the cash that’s burning a hole in her bag. She can’t help feeling like she’s on the verge of making a mistake. But she also can’t help the urge to walk away and to never look back. 

“Look, I just don’t  _ do  _ this. It’s nothing to do with you.” 

“Don’t do what? One nighters?” 

She laughs as she makes her way off his bed and towards the pile of clothes that fell to his floor so quickly, but it’s not a happy sound.  

“No, I don’t do  _ more. _ ” 

Pulling on her jeans and boots takes no time at all, though she scrambles around the bed to find her bra and tee-shirt. It smells like them, like sex, a reminder of the warmth that had curled around her heart this morning, squeezing tightly until she suffocated under the raw  _ hope _ . 

No, she’s right to do this, to run away. She just... _ can’t _ . 

He makes no move to keep her from leaving and, as much as she wants to give him some parting words that don’t feel so fraught, she lets the echo of the door closing follow her exit. 

.

Killian’s been paid for many a job, some legal and some not. He’s managed for some twenty years now, though, to never quite as much like a prostitute as he does now, thumbing the bills that she left in an envelope, labeled  _ James _ in neat, crisp handwriting. There’s almost enough there to pay his final hospital bill, the one for the hours of physical therapy and the series of fittings for his new hand. With his earnings there is  _ enough _ to pay it all. 

But then he’d be faced with this. This warehouse of stolen parts and his sole client a man of few means. His past life had been lucrative and some days it does call to him, sounding much like Smee’s voice in his ear, trading favors for his labor one final time. And now that Emma’s left in a whirl of movement and the tension of regret settling deep in his gut, there’s nothing to stop him from agreeing. 

Except himself. If he can find the strength to choose. 

He shakes it all off, filing the feelings away under  _ bad timing _ and shuffles around his workshop for a good thirty minutes until he mutters, “Fuck it,” under his breath and grabs his jacket. 

She’s probably long gone from his neighborhood and, damn her, she won’t chase him away from his own life.

.

The last person he expects to see in the diner around the corner from his place is her. 

_ Emma. _

But there she is, long blonde hair pulled back as usually. The long ponytail falling over her shoulder as she eats her breakfast. She’s sitting in the far back corner, a booth for two and a short stack of pancakes. But it’s really the pile of whipped cream on top of a coffee mug that surprises him. He hadn’t taken her for somebody with a sweet tooth. Though, it’s not as if they spoke of much between cryptic conversations about bail jumpers and a series of orgasms that he’ll not soon forget. 

She looks so alone. So serious and unsmiling that he has to remind himself that she’s made it clear that her feelings are not his concern. 

She hasn’t seen him yet, so he slides into a booth at the front, just as a family of three grabs the check and heads to the register. Bussing the empty dishes to the other side of his table, he leans back to swipe a menu from the hostess stand, and he gives her a wink for good measure. He’s in here often enough that she knows his face, if not his name, and knows he’s harmless enough. To her, that is. 

He spends his time expressly ignoring her presence in the room. Even though it looks like she didn’t go very far, he finds himself unwilling to press himself upon her further. He’d felt her wanting this morning, the way her body had opened for him, the way she seemed to sigh into him. But she’d chosen to leave. And so when Ruby comes over to take his order, he makes sure to avoid looking too far beyond his lovely waitress. He most definitely does  _ not  _ flick his gaze to the back of the room where she sits. 

It is a challenge, but he manages it with the help of the slim paperback in his jacket pocket. So when, some ten minutes and one coffee later, he senses a body sliding onto the bench across from him, the voice that greets him quietly is a shock to his system. 

“So, I didn’t get very far.” 

He looks up and sees the dark circles under her eyes. Ones that he’d not noticed this morning, his face buried in the curve of her neck, lips tasting her salty-sweet skin and hand roaming. And then later, he’d looked anywhere but in her eyes as she’d dressed, not wanting to see the regret that he’d read in her actions. 

His gaze drifts down, watching the way her throat works, as she swallows a gulp of air. He’s not said anything in return, but he closes his book and places it on the table, hoping its enough for her to continue. 

“I -” she pauses. Her hands clasp together and she braces against the table. “I had just convinced myself to go back, breakfast in hand, when I saw you here.” 

She holds his gaze and he doesn’t stop his lips from curving into a smile. Then he turns and, catching Ruby’s eye, he circles his fingers to tell her he’s wrapping things up to-go, and she winks at him. 

He tilts his head as he watches her reactions - eyes widening, pulse fluttering in her neck. Earlier in the morning, she’d told him that she doesn’t do  _ more. _ And yet here she is, across from him, asking him for  _ something. _

It’s a  _ something _ that he cannot resist. 

They’re quiet for a few moments as he pulls on his jacket and he pays the bill, but her arm brushes against his and it’s enough to make his blood rush in a desire to be inside her once again. 

“Food can wait,” he says as he grabs her hand, pulling her to her feet. And, grabbing the to-go bag from Ruby, he revels in the heat of her fingers curling around his. 

.

True to his word, Killian tosses his container of food on the ground as soon as they enter the warehouse. Still holding her hand, he pulls her towards the large wooden boat in the center of the workspace, resting on stilts, with a ladder leaning against it. Once he climbs the ladder, Killian shrugs off his jacket while Emma’s hand runs along the smooth, reconditioned wood. He watches her inspecting his boat from his perch. 

“Your work is beautiful,” she admits. “Is there much of a market for this type of restoration?

She’s making him wait, but it’s not on purpose. Not exactly. It does soothe her nerves, though. This decision to come back for more makes her shake. 

With need. With fear. With hope. 

No, scratch that third one. 

He takes her question seriously. “Yes, though building a client base takes time.” She can hear an edge to his words, one that likely has no place between them, given what she’s here for. 

Perhaps he feels the same, because with a sudden shift, he sends her a leering grin. “There’s more wood up here that might like the same careful attention, love.” 

It should have been ridiculous. And maybe it is, but it’s been so long since she’s had sex with laughter on the side and she feels that tug of heat, that brief flutter of nerves that she’s becoming accustomed to. Focusing on the this need she feels, the desire that starts humming under her skin, she climbs to the top of the ladder before, lips twitching, she asks, “Do I need permission to come aboard?” 

His eyes alight with pleasure at her attempted levity. With outstretched hand, he pulls her towards him and they fall, limbs tangled together. Rolling until he’s beneath her, Emma gives into the urge to thread her fingers through his hair, the silky smooth strands catching as she pulls his mouth towards hers. 

When their lips meet, she settles into him, air thickening as her center finds him hard against the seam of his jeans. Rocking up into her he groans into her mouth, tongue following and she tastes the remnants of his bitter coffee from earlier. 

Her fingers slide between their bodies, working the button if his jeans before she can second guess herself. She makes quick work of her own, tearing her mouth from his and shifting just long enough to wiggle out of her pants. She wants to laugh at the tight quarters and awkward dance of clothes, but her mouth goes dry at the sight of his flushed cheeks, and the way his pupils dilate, dark and wanting. 

She's sure he can see the same, mirrored on her own feature. 

She stretches into her back, the boat hard but the wood smooth beneath her bare limbs. There's an art to the way it curves and bends into shape, and she appreciates it as much as she does the man lying next to her. Reaching out, her hand traveling slowly across rippled abdomen, feeling the hard muscles and the subtle crinkling of the hair at his chest. Gliding with purpose, she circles around his biceps, enjoying the way they flex and move as his fingers dance along the edge of her underwear, playing the soft skin and teasing the elastic until she's writhing beneath his touch, murmuring her need for what she'd denied them both earlier. 

And when he fills her, his fingers hard and twisting, she comes so quickly that she'd be embarrassed but for his answering murmurs of pure pleasure. 

His frustrated admission over a lack of condom leads to her wicked smiles against his skin as she licks down his body, teeth scraping over his nipples - once to test, twice because of the deep growl that comes from the back of his throat. And then it's her lips around his cock and his whispered demand for her fingernails in his skin, marking him at the same moment she pulls away and he marks her with his come. 

.

“James Hook?” She laughs later as she takes in her surroundings, glancing at his things, all the while he eats his cold breakfast. Flitting across letters and bills, she finds the envelope with his cash and she turns towards him. 

She’s doing her best to gloss over many of the details. She, of all people, knows how much one might value privacy. Especially a person who goes by one name but truly holds another. 

“I suppose I went for irony when I came to the states,” he jokes, his hair still sticking up, a byproduct of the way she ran her fingers through it. “People rarely question it, you'd be surprised.” 

At her snort, he shrugs, “Or maybe not. Given your line of work.”

She assents and, placing the envelope back on the makeshift countertop, she crosses the short distance to his card table and slides into the chair across from him. His foot brushes against hers under the table as she leans toward him, and stealing a bite of his food, she allows him his secrets.

“Hey,” he swats her hand away and that's the moment when it hits her. How  _ comfortable _ she is, how  _ relaxed _ he is. 

Even more dangerous, she no longer feels the urge to slip away.  

.

Later, Killian wonders at his luck when he he wakes up, sky still dark with night, to her hand wrapped around his dick and the soft teasing of her teeth on his ear. She's so wet, rubbing herself against him, riding his thigh, that it takes mere seconds of reaching over and rolling on a condom before her leg hitches over his hip and he slides inside her, deep and slow. 

He should be exhausted, sated, after earlier when she'd ridden him to the sounds of drunken revelry outside, the  _ Happy New Year’s  _ and the drunken arguments. The firecrackers and the joyous singing. But all he can do instead is send her over the edge with the swivel of his hips and his fingers tangled in her hair. 

Before drifting to sleep, he remembers asking her to stay. To stay one more day. Sleepy and sated, her murmured yes made his heart squeeze in pleasure. Nuzzling into her hair, he’d fallen asleep with his body pressed against hers for the second night in a row. 

Foolishly bargaining with the devil for maybe a third or a fourth. Pushing those thoughts away, however, is easy, as her warmth envelops him, her nails digging into him again, gripping his ass, raking along his back. It makes his flesh rise, makes him shake with increased need, the hint of pain and the slick desire surrounding his cock. 

It’s a good reminder. That he doesn’t deserve to feel this much pleasure. But he’s taking it anyway. 

Her lips find his neck, and she presses them to his skin, hot  and open mouthed, her quiet gasps punctuating the quiet space as heat builds between their bodies. Burns them both until they're slick with sweat. Her first orgasm is a fluttering around him that almost sends him over the edge. Not wanting it to end, he rolls them until she's on her stomach and shaking as he repositions himself and thrusts home. Her hands grip his sheets and his fingers tangle in her hair yet again until they're both pushing and pulling and grasping. 

All he can do is shout her name when he releases, pressing soothing kisses down her spine as their heartbeats attempt recovery. 

Sleep threatens to pull him under, but he can sense her restlessness beside him. As they lay facing the concrete ceiling, her legs twitch and she sighs, as if swallowing a question. He’s spent enough time with women to know that she’s kept a strong hold on her curiosity. Just as much as he also knows that it’s as much self preservation as respect.

“You can ask me anything, Emma.” 

“Within reason, I imagine.” 

He rolls towards her and, eyes adjusting to the darkness, is able to make out the shape of her lips and the way they twist with a bitterness that he hasn’t expected. “No,” he tries to be gentle with his tone. “Though I suppose I should be more careful given your job.” 

Lips relaxing, she faces him, but keeps her body facing up, avoiding a drift towards him, avoiding this strange pull of understanding. “I meant what I said, Killian. I’m not the police. I won’t come knocking on your door with a warrant.” 

She rolls away from him and moments later, he does the same. Back to back, he drifts into sleep and hopes that she’s able to follow suit.  

.

The intrusion of real life is swift and vicious, with a banging at his door while Emma slips into the shower. Finding Smee on the other side, Killian pulls the metal behind him with a clang and bites out, “What the bloody hell are you doing here?” 

A bright red cap on his head, his former colleague ignores his frustration. “I told you the price. Besides, what could be keeping you  _ here _ ? Of all places.” 

“You risk us both coming here,” he says through clenched jaw. 

And though it  _ is _ true, Killian knows that he also wants Emma as far away from his business with the man as possible. Head tilting and ears straining, Smee follows the flicker of emotion across Killian’s face and hardens his own gaze. “So some pretty woman is in your shower and now you’re too good for an old friend, I see.” 

Perhaps he regrets the words as soon as he says them, but Killian doesn’t stick around long enough to find out. He turns away, saying, “I will find you. Later,” as he slams the door in Smee’s face.

.

There’s a desperation to Killian when he comes to her in the shower. Emma feels it rolling off him in waves of heat. She offers him what comfort she can, which is perhaps why she allows him to grip the towel bar behind her head and thrust into her so hard her breasts sway and she must grip his arms. Lifting her foot to the edge of the tub, he grinds slowly once he’s inside her, his teeth digging into her shoulder as he moves. 

Whatever turmoil he feels, she cannot fix, and it’s a reminder that despite their connection, despite the previous day spent eating and fucking and laughing, he’s still a stranger to her in many ways. 

A stranger who can play her body so well already, the quick build of desire between her legs proof of that. 

He’d asked her, last night, to stay another day but she knows now that she can’t. Sex cannot fix whatever unease lies between them, whatever lies in his past, lurking, making its way towards the surface. 

And sex cannot fix her. 

No, all sex can do is this, build and build until she comes gasping his name, him following. 

.

There’s a message waiting on her phone when she turns it on. A new case that her contact at the courts through might interest her. It doesn’t but, taking in the wrecked bed and his haunted gaze, it’s easy to convince herself that it’s for the best. 

.

This time when she leaves, he knows he’ll not see her again. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a/n: sometimes I write achingly slow, and other times the words come so quickly I can barely keep up. I hope you’ve enjoyed my melancholy love story. because rest assured, it is a love story in the end. also, I can’t believe I forgot this shoutout. but this story never would have happened without tumblr user ohmyohpioneer and her glorious miserable christmas mix. also, many thanks to tumblr user weezly14 for listening to me plot and angst over this story.

_One Year Later_

Emma’s phone rings almost the instant she unlocks her apartment door, and it takes a massive feat of juggling purse and luggage as she stumbles into her entryway before she can pick up.

“Are you back in Boston yet? You should definitely be back in Boston.”

The excited little voice on the other end of the line never fails to make her smile. It’s Henry, anxiously checking in on her.  And, even though she just saw him eight hours ago, his little hand waving to her from his front porch as she drove away, her heart still gives a little squeeze, as if she can’t quite believe that this is now her life.

“You got that right, kid. I just got to my apartment. Hey, tell your mom thanks for me, okay?”

She’s not exactly rushing him off the phone, but she’s suddenly struck with hesitation. What can she say to this kid when he’s not in front of her, eagerly bouncing her around, or shyly showing him the stories that he’s written in his fairytale book.

No, it's not that she doesn't want to talk to him longer, but the moment she walks into her sparse, empty apartment, she's filled with a wave of loneliness, made only more acute by the fact that in the background she can hear Henry’s younger step-brother playing a game with his parents. And she hates that even after this year of getting to know this kid of hers, and his family, that she can still feel this clawing sadness.

She'd hoped she was over it. And she most definitely does not want the kid to hear it in her voice. He’d only worry.

“So when are we gonna see you again?”

Henry's excited ten year old voice is infectious, so she lets him ramble and she puts the phone on speaker as she drops her suitcase. She convinces herself that she can do this. They can talk and joke as she wanders around her room, unpacking clothes, and he tells her about the latest cartoon that he’s watching, and she marks it down on this list beside her bed titled _Things Henry Loves_.

As they make plans for her next visit to Maine, his chatter and excitement fill her space with something other than threatening melancholy.

.

Later, after she’s showered and unpacked, everything has gone too still. The sun went down long ago, even though it’s only 7 p.m. But it’s not the darkness that bothers her. It’s the quiet that inhabits her space. Sure, she’d left her television on while she showered, the dull hum of voices a poor substitute for the hustle and bustle of the previous two weeks. She’s wandered into and out of her kitchen, aimlessly, searching for something to heat up for dinner. Though, she was gone for so long that all she finds is leftovers that are clearly beyond their expiration date. Wrinkling her nose, she pulls out her computer to order some take-out when she sees it lying there on her coffee table.

Never far from sight.

Fingering the now-crumpled letter ( _Dear Emma Swan, I'm pretty sure you're my mom)_ , the one that she’d received in the mail one month after her brief fling with Killian had ended, she vows to text Elsa instead of allowing herself to wallow. A social worker who she’d first consulted when Henry contacted her, she now counts the other woman as a friend. A strange, unexpected friendship.

_Don’t you dare wallow._ Her phone chirps back at her. _Go out and be around people, even if it’s just to the cafe around the corner._

Emma smiles, even if it is a self-deprecating tease. Her friend knows her tendencies all too well, having the same ones herself. Or, at least, Elsa claims to have overcome said tendencies to run away.

_Meet me there?_ Emma asks, knowing it’s unlikely, but wanting the buffer against loneliness nonetheless. Which, in and of itself is progress. It’s not too long ago that Emma would have taken herself the the nearest empty dive bar and had a shot of whiskey.

And wallowed.

Much like she had been at this time last year. And damn, that’s the second time tonight she’s thought of Killian of the sad blue eyes and the empty warehouse, and the broken dreams. She’d thought of him so many times in the weeks following their short time together. She’d thought of the way his hand, his lips, mapped her body, and she’d thought of the way his lips twisted in angst during the times (few as they were) that their naked limbs weren’t tangled together.

Sometimes, she’d been tempted to find him. The only thing holding her back the letter that her fingers still trace. This crumpled letter with a ten year old boy’s scrawling handwriting. Telling her that he’s her son, the one she gave away all those years ago. Telling her that it's okay, now. He used to be mad but his therapist say (and his teacher says and his mom even says) those feelings are normal and it's okay to be angry and scared as long as he is also brave. Telling her writing this letter is brave and will she be brave, too, and write back?

God, the letter kills her. Every time she reads it. Every time she even just thinks about it.

Her phone chirps again. _Not tonight_ , Elsa replies. _But I expect photographic evidence that you’ve left your apartment in thirty minutes. Or else I’m recruiting reinforcements._

Emma shudders considering Elsa’s arsenal (and oh, Kristoff is the worst of the bunch with his quips and jokes and seemingly endless supply of ridiculous stories). Opting not to reply until she has said evidence, Emma grabs her coat still hanging haphazardly on her lopsided coatrack, throwing aside thoughts of Killian once again. It’s all for the best, she’s convinced herself. And she still believes it. That leaving had been the right thing to do.

Bundling into her scarf and beanie, she grabs leather gloves from her kitchen counter and slips out, braving the cold and flurries of snow.

.

It’s these distractions in her head that keep her from watching where she walks as she turns the corner to reach the cafe. It’s these distractions in her head when she walks straight into a person, the loud sound of “Whoa there,” following the collision.

Coming from a voice that she recognizes well.

.

_One Week Earlier_

“Are you sure you don’t want to stay for a few days?” David asks Killian as he packs up his pickup truck.

His legally obtained pickup truck. Quite possibly his first non-stolen vehicle in his entire life.

“I wouldn’t want to intrude,” he answers honestly. Scratching behind his ear at the confusing urge he feels to agree, he leaves his words to linger in the air instead of taking them back.

“Nonsense,” David snorts, “We’re kind of all family around here, even the ones who aren’t actually family.”

It really is tempting, though he demurs yet again.

Killian’s already been up at David’s farm for a week, delivering a hand-crafted Adirondack guideboat that David had commissioned from him, after meeting Killian at a boating exposition in Boston several months previous. It was his first solo project, designing and building a boat from scratch, one for David to use on the lake that surrounds his farmland up in New Hampshire. And then, because David is David, he invited Killian to stay longer, giving him some odd-jobs around the farm, tinkering with engines and fixing up some old canoes that had been in the family for several generations.

He feels a swell of pride, of accomplishment. But, as much as he’d like to stay, even just a few days longer, to say yes to the other man’s generous offer, he’s equally ready to leave. Perhaps it’s that David reminds Killian of his brother, Liam, just a hair too much for comfort’s sake. Though most of his memories of his brother are cherished, there’s still a distinct bitter taste in those surrounding Liam’s untimely demise. (And perhaps the way Killian spiraled afterwards has to do with that.)

Besides, this time of year is for family and friends, not for clients and almost-out-of-debt former criminals, to break bread.

.

It’s the song on the air as he crosses the border back into Massachusetts that makes him think of her more than anything else. It had been playing on the jukebox the night that they first met, at Jeff’s bar, down the street from his first workshop.

He’s since left the neighborhood, and, he’d thought, the memories of her behind him. All twisted up with Smee and that final job he couldn’t avoid, even his memories of the way the water fell over her naked body in his shower during those final moments cannot be divorced from the desperation and helplessness that he had felt.

He’d done what he could to put her out of his mind.

Until now, that is. Driving home to Boston, a new neighborhood where his apartment rests on top of his workshop, and he no longer has to worry about sawdust flying into a makeshift kitchen and bedroom. He has actual furniture now, crooked though the bed frame is, a gift from a new friend he’d met at the woodshop where he still took classes.

Maybe if they were to meet again, this time she would stay. She could look into his eyes now and maybe she would see the changes. Not finished yet, not nearly reformed enough. But reformed-ish. reform _ing_.

At the very least, no longer hiding.

It wouldn’t be difficult to track her down. A woman who works in bailbonds, her name, and even a quick sketch of her face, her features still burned into his memories, would be enough. But then, she’d be able to find him, too. He may have shed the name James Hook, but that is a small thing. Nothing could stop her. Not if she wanted him found.

And so, like he's trained himself to do, he pushes thoughts of her away and concentrates on the road in front of him.

.

_One Day Ago_

He begins this New Year quite unlike the previous. Waking up to an empty bed may remind him of last year, when he’d woken up to warm limbs and questing hands. He’d been doing so well this past week, not thinking of her after that brief moment driving. This morning, though? It’s difficult to stop the remembered flush of pleasure and the way she’d moved against him.

His hand drifts south, rubbing lazily over sweatpants as he contemplates doing more, until he’s interrupted by the buzzing of his phone.

_Get your butt over here, Jones. I’ve got pancakes with your name on them._ It’s Ruby from the diner who has slowly become Ruby his friend. Ruby his self-appointed social director. Ruby his unofficial agent/manager/contact-maker.

It’s the Jones that really gets to him. The easy familiarity with which she uses it.

He’s Killian Jones again.

.

The trek to his old neighborhood isn’t long, the streets fairly quiet, though showing the effects of late-night revelry.

The bell above the door jingles as he enters the diner, finding Ruby guarding an empty stool in the back. He nods at the patrons that he knows - Jeff from the bar and some other regulars - but carefully avoids conversation. They know him as James and he wants to start this New Year right. As himself for the first time in so many years.

Ruby greets him with coffee and a smile, which he meets with one of his own. “I hope you saved some of that fresh syrup for me.”

Her laughter is light and musical, “You know we serve that to all the customers, right?”

He keeps grinning and answers with a wink, “Don’t worry, love, I’ll keep your secrets.”

Rolling her eyes, she leaves to check on another customer. “Just drink your coffee. Pancakes will be up soon.”

And though he doesn’t talk with her again, she slips him an extra piece of bacon, and when he finishes, he leaves her with a generous tip.

.

_Now_

The woman who runs into him is so bundled up that he doesn’t realize it’s her, _Emma_ , for a full minute.

Voice muffled as she rambles an apology to the ground, and not his face, he grabs her arms to steady her, really to steady them both as they sway under the impact. Her arms flinch under his touch, and it’s then that the small details filter through. The precise shade of blonde hair that peeks out of the grey beanie. The husky timbre to her voice, that doesn’t quite disguise it’s familiarity. Then, as she raises her head, the reluctance evidence in the speed with which she does so (really, the lack thereof), it’s the green of her eyes. Sparkling under the light that comes from the store window, but so green and so familiar to him.

“Emma,” he breathes her name, and she dips her chin in acknowledgement.

Her response is a faint whisper that sighs his name, “Killian,” into the space between their bodies, punctuated by the steam of her warm breath in the cold air. Then, “I recognized your voice,” she admits, her teeth pulling at her lower lip as she watches for his reaction.

“And you, what, thought to hide yourself from me?” He tries not to sound hurt, though he’s sure some manner of frustration escapes him. In truth, he’s reeling as much as she, retreating to sarcasm the same as she does to that icy stiffness.

She relaxes so quickly that he’d almost be able to convince himself that she’d never tensed under his touch.

“No. No, Killian. I was just surprised. I wasn’t prepared to see you again. Not like this.”

He barks out a laugh. “Neither was I, love.”

He pulls away from her, then, his hand releasing its grip on her arm, but she doesn’t make motion to walk away from him. The moment still lingers between them, the recognition, the unease. And it’s not so much a revelation, as it is an acceptance. Seeing her again, he knows, deep within his gut, that this chance cannot be wasted. That he’ll regret it if she leaves once again.  

“Not like this, eh?” He picks up on her earlier words. “So then you _have_ thought of me?”

Her lips twitch and it looks as though she might tease back at him, until a gust of wind sends shivers down his spine, and whips her hair into her face. Her nose wrinkles then and she shakes her head. “Not here.”

.

Emma leads him to the cafe where she’d been heading. He follows behind her, for which she’s grateful, giving her time to compose the wild beating of her heart that began the moment that she recognized the voice coming from the wall of hard body in front of her.

There’s only one table open in the cafe so he nods towards it and gives her his order (small coffee, black) before claiming the space for the two of them. She’s thankful for the extra time, and wonders if maybe he needs it, too. He’d come across more composed than she, his shock lasting only a moment before his lips relaxed into that flirtatious smirk, with which she is so familiar.

She’d spent hours tracing those lips, with her fingers, with lips of her own. She knows their shape so well, still burned on her memory. It’d be easy to say that it was only because he was the last guy that she’d slept with, and up until this moment that’s exactly what she’s said to Elsa a time or two. But seeing him again she knows.

She knows it so deep within her, now.

As she places their order and waits at the counter, she glances back at him only to find him watching her. He’s relaxed in his chair, not fiddling around on a phone or eavesdropping on the conversations of other patrons. He maintains his careful gaze on her, even as she catches him staring.

She licks her lips nervously.

He bites his lower lip, eyes heating.

She tucks her hair behind her ears.

The corners of his lips lift.

She blinks in surprise when the barista announces their coffee order, breaking the spell.

Still, neither of them breaks their gaze as she walks towards the table.

.

“I did think of you.”

Her quiet admission takes a few moments to break through whatever quiet spell that built between them while they waited.

“At least for a little while,” she continues. “But then life. Well, life changed for me this year.”

He nods, hands cupping the mug of warm coffee as he listens. She hesitates to tell him more, to say much about Henry. There are still so many questions between them and Henry? He’s just a kid. She hasn’t even known how to tell him about his biological father yet, about where she gave birth, and why it was where it was. How can she explain this man to her son, too?

“Life changed for me, too,” is his reply. “I don’t go by James any longer,” his own quiet admission continues.

There’s no real reason to whisper, the cafe crowded and boisterous, but they both seem to follow the same unspoken desire. The thread of tension, of intimacy between them growing.

Under the table, his boot slides against hers. Her stomach flutters in response. She could take him home tonight, and he would agree. Her foot presses back and his gaze sharpens. Oh, how it’s tempting to throw caution to the wind.

Old Emma would have done it. But Old Emma would use this desire to hold him away from her. At a safe distance - enough to touch her body, but not her heart. New Emma? She’s not yet sure what New Emma wants.

Perhaps all she needs is a chance. Maybe it won’t work. Maybe it won’t last. But she’ll never find out if she doesn’t at least _try_.

Taking a breath she stretches out her hand. “Hi, my name’s Emma.”

.

All he can think is, _yes. This is right._

His smile widens, matching hers, as he leans across the table between them, hand stretching out to meet hers. The clasp of fingers sends a spark across his body. A jolting awareness that she feels, as well, her pulse fluttering beneath his touch.

“Hi Emma, I’m Killian,” he says. “It’s lovely to meet you.”


End file.
